Head to Heart, An Accidental Dialogue
by melissaisdown
Summary: Post ep 4x16. Guilt,denial, angst. Episode-like
1. A Synonym for Sabotage

The mechanical presence of a sine wave is his only companion. A team of monitors at his side. Beep, tone, pulse echoing now, a constant reminder of what he'd most like to forget, what he'd most like to not be true. Cognizant of location, sadly aware of being alone, he removes the leads from his body, if only to hear what it might sound like had he not made it. Perhaps hoping that to disconnect his heartbeat from the machines is enough to will his heart to stop. To die now, in the vain attempt to save Amber, rather than to go on living knowing the burden that is blame.

Brief is the duration between the removal of the leads and a nurses appearance, but she does not rush because she cares, no this is her job. Nobody really cares.

A disconcerting thought, from a hospital bed.

Greg House does not blame all that know him for not caring.Nor is there a tinge of surprise. Emptiness, misery, a headache, were the least he deserved. The nurse tries to reattach the leads, tries to convince him to lie back down, administer a sedative, but House will not have it. Struggling with him, the nurse relents. They always do.

As the abrasive nihilist, the manipulative bastard, the maverick diagnostician's feet meet the floor, his first thought is of Lisa Cuddy. A memory of her at his bedside seems familiar, but it's reality uncertain. With the cold floor, and no cane, House escapes intensive care not knowing if he has a friend in the world. Involuntary as the heart beating in spite of itself are the misguided footsteps that drive him to her office. The office he so frequently barged into, taking advantage of her tolerance of him, this time he hopes offers refuge. Lisa Cuddy is on the telephone, reassigning board positions, quelling a potential strike, justifying insurance practices and doing all things administrative. The only thing that could steal her from his side was her job. She is not facing the door as it opens.

"How's Wilson?"

The phone immediately falls.

"Fine. How are you?"

The sight of House disheveled, unshaven, and injured was a familiar one for

Cuddy. The sight of him this broken is one not seen since the infarction.

Loss consumes his eyes, so much that it hurt to look.

"I need to sit down."

Running to him as his legs collapse, a hold on him, she sits.

"You shouldn't be out of bed yet. You just came out of a coma four

hours ago."

"You were there?"

A nod. "I've been monitoring your condition closely. You should never have

been in a coma in he first place."

"I shouldn't be here."

"You're right. I'll get a wheelchair and take you back to ICU."

"No. I mean...I should have died. I deserve to die."

"You can't honestly believe that. House, you did everything you could to save Amber." A hand on his shoulder as he goes to stand.

"I need to talk to Wilson."

"Don't think that's possible. He went home, and he's on leave until further notice."

House sits again, resigned, solemn, questioning why Cuddy hasn't abandoned him yet. Contemplating when it will happen. Their eyes meet and upon witnessing his own pain in hers comes the realization that she may be all he has left. Regret, remorse, and pain cannot be experienced in sleep. So, House sleeps. Self sedation is his chosen form of therapy, always. Being numb isn't enough anymore, perhaps it was never enough. The need to erase the images from that night completely, to somehow change everything, or atleast to stop his mind from revisiting the way in which he ruined everything, destroyed Wilson, lost his best friend, killed Amber. The pain of his leg is for once subdued, but only by tremendous guilt. And vicodin does nothing for guilt.

Awakening to the somber hum of fluorescence, he is beginning to get tired of this place. The absence of color, the sterile walls, monitors that can only taunt an already suicidal spirit. The desire to have it all end, and still she's by his bedside. House watches her sleep for nearly an hour,gauging how near she is to waking. Still uncertain why Cuddy is keeping vigil, and then a thought, back to _her _perverse guilt. That must be it. Nearly a decade and she still carries the weight. Cuddy begins to stir.

"Hey," he says to wake her.

She opens her eyes.

"What time is it?" He asks.

A look at her watch. "3:30. How are you feeling?"

"Good as new. Think I'll go home now."

He swings his legs over the edge of the hospital bed.

"What?"

"I had my nap, now I 'm ready to go play with the other kids."

"No, no, no. You need more than a nap House. In the past 48 hours you have gotten a concussion, had an overdose induced heart attack, and electrocuted your brain, only to end up in a coma..."

"Yeah, I know. I was there for most of it."

Cuddy stands, putting a hand on his knee.

"Lie down. It's 3am, you need rest, you need to recover."

A beat.

"Why are you here?"

"This is my hospital. I'm supposed to be here."

"I mean in my room, at my bedside..."

"I was concerned for your well being. I'm your friend, I'm supposed to be."

A suspicious look.

"And I wanted you to know you weren't alone."

"But I am."

Their palms meet, rising.

"I'm here if you need me."

Cuddy lets go, knowing this oppressive weight.

Morning comes too soon. House could not sleep once she had gone. He could only dwell. On what should've been said, what could've been done. Sorrow, sacrifice, a sigh, to be alone in the moment. Seeing himself meandering through the five stages of death, stuck on anger, not knowing how he'll ever find closure. Not knowing if Wilson will even speak to him.

The thought evaporates. Cuddy is coming.

"Back for seconds?" Then, looking at the nurse delivering his breakfast,

"She has a fetish for comatose cripples."

"Feel any better?"

"I told you, I'm fine. You don't have to keep checking on me. I'm ready to go home. "

"So that you can try and find Wilson?"

"No. So that I can get away from you. You've developed an obsession."

A foot touches the tile.

"House, he needs some time away. From you. Wilson doesn't _want_ to be found right now."

"He told you that?"

Cuddy nods. House rubs his leg, squinting.

"I still need to go home."

Apartment 221B offers no solace. It is only a reminder. Was the expulsion of people he cared about from his life a result of his swollen ego? Or a way of remaining objective in every scenario? Perhaps just a defense mechanism, at any rate it was another regret on a very long list. At home his companion is scotch. Tonight being no exception, House is just about to down his fifth shot when a knock at the door interceded. He knows who it is.

"Before you ask, I'm fine."

The words escaped before he even laid eyes on her. Cuddy was beautiful. Possibly never moreso than at this very moment. Always making a mess of things, House thought. A different time, a different place, she would be his. She was his once, for a moment.

The moment never passes.

"I haven't slit my wrists, if that's why you're here."

Cuddy reacts to the smell of his breath, "Hitting the bottle isn't much better."

"What do you want?"

"I brought you something."

"I don't want it."

He goes to slam the door.

"Aren't you a little curious?"

Of course. The unrequited catastrophe that is _them_ though, he is not strong enough for. Not now. The knowledge that except for his own self sabotage, she could be his. Here because she wants to be with him, not because of her own perpetual guilt.

The door reopens and he signals her to come in. House staggers to his couch, so drunk that by the time he reaches it he has nearly forgotten about Cuddy. The vicodin bottle is empty, the scotch bottle not far behind. All that Cuddy has brought is an intervention. She remains the only person who thinks House needs saving. Or deserves it. Knowing he'd inherited the burden of blame, she is there to try and lift the weight. Inebriation prevented as much, atleast for now. The irony of night is the opacity. Everything appears placid,under control, but it's only because _everything_ is in the dark. There she lay, in the dark, a passed out department head leaning heavy on her. They have a past, one she often revisits, her memory isolating the most sensory moments. They have a past, an accidental union rife with regret both for ever letting happen and for ever letting it end. They have a past, one they never speak of, one whose details have begun to fade. They have a past, a future is what they are missing. Crossing one arm upon his chest, Cuddy lays back further, closing her eyes.

"Was it as good for you as it was for me?"

Morning. It is House's voice, and hangover breath, his mouth hardly two inches from hers. As quickly as he can, House sits up, reacting to his headache. He goes to stand, and succeeds on hisnext attempt.

"That is the second time you have slept over, Dr. Cuddy.The next time you plan on throwing a slumber party atleast let me know so I can get some popcorn, and invite the other girls, oh and prepare my video camera for the pillow fights."

More is said about pillow fights but it trailed off as House heads for the bathroom. After dispelling what remained of the scotch and returning to the couch, he saw her putting her coat on and felt a pang of panic.

"Leaving so soon? But what about my morning pride?"

"I'm going to be late for an appointment with a benefactor."

"And wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Subtle. They won't suspect a thing."

As she pulls her hair back, House finds himself lost in the realization that he'll miss her. How much she's sacrificed for him over the years. No idea how to repay her, no idea how to even thank her.

Hiring Greg House was the first sacrifice. She knew him at Michigan,everybody knew him. Knew when she gave him the job that it would cost. Lawsuits, headaches, possibly one day even her job. Defending him against Vogler the hospital lost six figures, purgering herself jeopardized her freedom, protecting him even from a hospital inspector nearly cost her her title. But she would do it all again, all the same.

Even Cuddy wasn't certain where her instinctual undying loyalty rose from. A valued friendship, a sweaty past, an administrative obligation, or just a debt to be paid perpetually for the chronic pain she's responsible for, it was always there.

"Listen, House if you want to talk," a hand rests on his shoulder.

"You know where I am."

Watching her walk away, wanting to stop her, to cry 'I get it now', to tell her

everything, he fell aphonic. Needing to say _something_,

"Hey where's my surprise?"

Cuddy quarter turned her head, grinning. "On your couch."

Footsteps fade, standing, barely, broken and alone, he retreats inside to find a new cane, a souvenir, a compensation. Time wasted is all the same.

The day drifts. Passing time seems frivolous when there is still so much unfinished. He channel surfs and downloads some porn,both of which only add to his restlessness. Laying down a medical journal,he considers calling for an escort. Both for the distraction and for the company, suicide is not a distant thought. Reaching for the phone,House freezes, suddenly more aware of how shallow it all is. Needing a friend, new cane in hand, he seeks one.

The sky is new, unfamiliar, early spring but overcast. Seething sporadic and involuntary tears of its own, the light being cast makes House a stranger to his surroundings. There would be life before this, and then there would be this. Amber. Perdition. Even Cuddy's home seems unfamiliar as the sombre cripple raises his hand to the doorbell.

Lisa Cuddy has saved his life on more than one occassion. She has watched him die and struggled to revive his body. Now, mind and soul were in need of resuscitation. The door opens, revealing House's forfeited visage, she assesses the pain in his eyes but can not speak.

Limping in from the cold and the strange, to a warmer place,

"You're soaking wet." Cuddy takes his coat.

"April showers."

His voice cracks, the sarcasm hardly shining through.

"Come sit by the fire, warm up, we don't need you getting pneumonia next."

House obeys, shivering.

"Do you need anything, did you just come by to talk?"

After a deep inhalation, "You're cooking."

"Yeah..."

"You see, that's the part where you're supposed to offer me some."

It had been a long time since they shared a meal. Alone together and on the brink of sabotaging everything.

"It never went away?"

"What?" Cuddy asked.

"Your guilt. It recedes sometimes, waxes, wanes but always

boomerangs back."

"You came here to talk about me?"

"I'm just a novice. You're the expert. An experienced practitioner of

regrettable deeds."

Cuddy shakes her head.

"C'mon, you leave a man crippled, in chronic pain for the rest of his life,

how do you ever let that go?"

"Your alternative was heart failure."

"Right. You saved me."

"Stacy saved you."

"Stacy took your medical advice."

"Do you blame me?"

A stagnant beat. House shakes his head.

"I should go."

He stands, heading for the door.

"It wasn't your fault, House. You didn't know the bus would crash, you didn't know she would get on, you didn't know Amber would come to pick you up. It's all contingency, fate, the randomness of life and death."

Stopping midstep he turns to face her as she nears him. Vulnerability and never before witnessed in this man. Cuddy doesn't want to see him cry, wrapping her arms around him tight, she can find no words. A single sob can almost be mistaken for a sigh as he buries his face in her shoulder. They stand like this for nothing short of an eternity. A comfortable embrace, the warmth of their bodies, his damp flesh, and cold hands.

Breaking away a moment, "Wilson will forgive you."

Teared filled eyes meet, and a hand caresses his face. An involuntary

snicker, the thought 'What if he doesn't?"

House wants her. To kiss her, as inappropriate as it may be. To thank her, and let her know he forgave her long ago, the action no words can substitute. Cuddy did save him, countless times. She is saving him now.

The connection they once had, the passion, that longing is his only possession. As she is about to kiss his forehead, he moves, heaving his head and in that moment their mouthes collide. A paradox, sloppy and eloquent, anything but romantic. A desperate, anxious embrace, impulsive; neither endearing nor gentle, it was raw,rash, heroic. Gratifyingly _right._

Time expands, willed to do so by the lonely souls who want anything but to face the consequences of this brief glance at joy. Curling around Greg House's neck, Cuddy's hands are familiar, in a new world where most of what he knows has vanished. A world where so much was lost, he still has her. Letting go is not an option, she fights to pull away, if only for air, but his mouth follows hers, never parting. A breath of his own fills her mouth, as House fumbles, uncertain where to put his hands.

He had kissed Lisa Cuddy before, but never like this. Never had meaninglessness felt so paramount.

Finally it breaks, Cuddy continues up to kiss his forehead, their heads contacting as they stand there, refusing to look eachother in the eyes.Refusing to acknowledge that this is all there will be, all there could be.

Alone. Together. And he is about to sabotage everything.


	2. The Significance of a Storm

II. The Significance of a Storm

Framed by the doorway, they stand wavering and helpless . House an  
invalid to his own emotions. A passenger on plane. A plane whose engines have died, whose wings have burst into flames. A plane whose pilots abandoned at take off. Forced to choose between jumping without a parachute and trying to land it himself, House's indecision s dangerous at this moment. A hand at the small of her back. The lightest touch. A faint intimation in his stare. Where is he leading her? His own thought as their eyes finally meet. Pain drove him into her arms before. The pain of losing Stacy, and most of his thigh. Is this comfortable because it is familiar, or is it different.

Could it be different? Questions flooding his brain, one escapes her,

"Are you going?" She almost whispers.

House never acknowledged the alternative. Until now. Considering in a moment of silence, his head aching, he nods. Holding his hand briefly as she lets him go, Cuddy bites her lip, and in an instant of sensory pleasure, still tastes him. The door closes, leaving only the unresolved and still unrequited.

Before Cuddy reaches her bed, only to sulk at the prospect of sleeping in it alone one more night, the doorbell rings. Rushing to answer, she tries to conceal her excitement.

"Deluge. Can you give me a ride home?"

Nodding, she reaches for her coat.

"You can stay here if you want. I mean you're leaving your bike

here anyway."

"Is Lisa Cuddy trying to seduce me?"

"I don't want to go out in the rain any more than you, House."

"I think you liked that kiss. I think you want more. You're trying to keep me here, pretty soon you'll get out the handcuffs..."

"Fine." And she puts her coat on, opens the door. But House doesn't move.

"Are you sure? Because the sleepovers are usually at my place."

The door shuts, Cuddy trails back to her bedroom.

"I'm taking a shower. You can have the bed if you want. I'll be up half the night going over expense reports."

House sits on her bed, watching her scramble for the shower. When the water turns on, he relaxes, removing his shoes. Spread eagle on her bed, and grinning at the thought. Then it dawns on him, Lisa Cuddy is naked, wet, alone, and the only thing separating them is a relatively thin wall.

Dirty thoughts about Lisa Cuddy are not something he can easily suppress. House has been pining for a reunion for years and at the moment that prospect pulls him away from his own self pity. A single pillow underneath his single head, a fantasy transpires:

The bathroom door isn't locked. Entering,enveloped by steam and overwhelming heat, her silhouette is familiar through the glass door of the shower. Did she hear him or is she just being coy? Sliding the door open, with no hint of hesitation, his first instinct to stare, ogle even, at the color of her wet flesh, her glistening dark hair, the goosebumps she gets when his arms wrap round her, pulling her from one kind of heat into another. Their mouths meet violently in Cuddy's slippery misstep. Gorgeous, and struggling to remove his saturated shirt as they sway and stagger to her bed. Their lips only parting so that he can concentrate on her neck,while she unbuttons his jeans. The sound of the zipper is victory. But he can't let her look once the jeans fall, missing thigh muscles and malformed legs are dealbreakers in the bedroom. Pushing her to the bed, beads of water and bubbles transform into sweat. On top of her, House's weight is familiar, the pressure grinding against her, now he buries his face in her breasts, his facial hair scratching,rasping the friction unbearable. Tongue encircling one nipple, sucking, nuzzling, kisses trail down, between her breasts, down ,a kiss on her belly,handsgripping tight around those hips, down...

The water stops. Shower's over. Shaking off the fantasy, House gets out of Cuddy's bed, taking a blanket and pillow with him. If he's going to have a wet dream, he'd rather it not be in her bed. Already feeling pathetic andnow a little aroused, he limps across the living room, resting on the couch.

It is going to be a long night.

Cuddy peaks her head in, " Sure you don't want the bed?"

House feigns snoring but knows sleep will not come tonight. He listens to Cuddy scurry about, making tea, sifting through papers, and he wonders what she's wearing underneath that robe. He wonders how she felt about the kiss and if she shares any of his thoughts.

The period of time between dusk and dawn is one single people share only with themselves. Cuddy with a bed full of pillows, knowing that _someone_ belonged in that space. House with his vicodin, and occassionally a lonely hand, never considering, if or who belonged in that space. Just assuming he'd already lost her.Tonight seems like no exception, together but alone, afraid of losing what little they have, afraid of the pain.

An hour has passed of audible administrative work. A passage of silence,then,

"Son of a bitch."

House sits up. It is after all the closest thing to a pet name she will ever have for him. When the cursing doesn't continue, he rises to investigate. Looming in her bedroom doorway, he watches Cuddy drag her foot as she collapses onto her bed, shocked only for a moment to see him standing there.

"If you're trying to impersonate me, you're using the wrong leg, but you should know that..."

Ignoring him, she rubs her foot.

"You're bleeding."

"I dropped a paper punch on it."

She picks it up. It's hulking, long, heavy.

"Ah, the three hole variety."

House sits in a nearby chair, patting his lap, an invitation for her foot. Cuddy's foot is tiny, pale, delicate. He stares at it a moment, wiping away the blood and examining it.

"It's not broken."

Arbitrarily placing a band aid on the wound, one of his hands errantly moves up her leg, stroking her ankle, gentle on he calve. But he feels Cuddy's glare and blinks, pulling away.

"Thanks."

House reaches for his vicodin bottle, dry swallowing, and offering her one but she's not even looking. Cuddy pushes the paperwork from her bed and lies back. House stands ready to return to the couch but impulsively plops down beside her, his body sprawling across the bed he had no intention of getting in again, especially with her. Uncertain of what he does next, what he wants to do next, he closes his eyes. A moment later, her hand takes his, all four of their eyes glued to the ceiling. He wants to look at her, to talk but the sound of the rain is enough. They stay still a while, as she nears sleep, Cuddy forces herself awake, standing.

"I'll take the couch."

Shaking his head, House stands pacing toward the couch. Chivalric, he compliments himself. But when Cuddy sits back down, he follows, to be beside her, the only direction he's being pulled.

A sleepy smirk graces Cuddy's lips and they finally look at eachother. Chagrin, and he stands again before another thought has the chance to cross his mind.

A redundant dance, to stay or to go...

Hearts beat faster and faster as Cuddy's pale face comes up to meet his own. House knows that when he kisses this woman, and forever weds his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind will never gambol again like the mind of a God he doesn't believe in.He knows what a kiss here and now means. So he waits, listening for a moment longer to the tuning fork that has been struck upon a star. And to the rain. And to her.Then he kisses her.

At lips' touch the reunion begins and there is no turning back .This time is different, it will be different. To step up and inherit the moment, is  
significantly more difficult when you're a cripple. But here he stands, initiating  
something dangerous, something mutual.

Urgency, panic, surprise, desire they are now both experiencing what they have denied themselves for so long. Cuddy, now admitting the accuracy of his evaluation, her hands framing his face, a torrential tempest flooding the rest of their world. Inside it's dry and warm and the urgency escalates as their tongues coalesce. A verse of monologue commences in her conscience,

"No, no, no. Not now. If this this was going to happen it should have started a long time ago," she tells herself. 'Except this did start a long time ago', her heart interrupts and she surrenders unconditionally. Not for the first time. And whether her heart or brain will let her admit it, she hopes not for the last.

House pulls back quickly, to look her in the eyes, to posit any hesitation, any second thoughts now, before he falls any further on this downward spiral. Kissing him reassuringly, softly he knows and rubbing his face to hers closes his eyes, contemplating how not to ruin this. His boss, his past incarnate, kisses his ear, cheek, and neck near the scar. He pushes the robe from her shoulder, and unties the belt with two fingers. It falls from her body gradually, revealing what he's longed for, what he's thought about in his masturbatory moments, _her_. No fantasy can compare to this feeling now, just standing there. The clock ticks as both struggle to forget time exists. Not wanting this to end, afraid of moving, afraid of spoiling it, House loses his balance, his good leg tiring. In this instant a tidal wave of emotion consumes him, tears fill his eyes and he wants only to go home. To quit the game he knows he can only lose, to forfeit before playing even one round.

A hand reaches out, supporting him and on a whim he lunges, his mouth devouring hers. Their bodies locked together as they fall on the bed, a giggle at the clumsy catastrophe itself. Cuddy is on top of him now, struggling with his shirt while his hand travels lower, cupping her ass. Curious fingers slide up her nightie, tugging at her thong, pulling it down as the shirt is ripped from his body. House's field of view is skewed, seeing only her he pauses a moment, in this silence they make an agreement, a pact, not unlike the one they made years past.

It is him asking permission, it is both of them allowing this to happen. Objectivity and romance are not things either doctor could find a way of marrying. So they abandon one for the other, on rainy nights, as a coping mechanism, and for eachother.

The air near his fingers is humid as he lifts her nightie to reveal the breasts doted upon for years. The breasts fantasized about in many showers, on rendezvous with hookers, and generally when he should be doing his job. But she will not let him touch them. Not yet. Cuddy's kissing him lightly on the lips teasing him, stroking his chest, admiring his arms, and trailing lower kissing just below his belly button, her tongue peaks out making him intolerably hard, and his eyes roll back. Continuing she unzips his jeans, the denim tight around his erection. A groan when she pulls at them, the friction she's creating ...she's always creating. Jeans on the floor, she straddles him now separated only by the cotton of his briefs, smiling and enjoying his torture. Rewarding him with the return of her breasts, House sits up brushing his cheek against one,that beard scratching, irritating, arousing a nipple as he kisses the other one, eyes closed while she slowly grinds against him. Dry friction, he feels her start to soak through, a subtle dampness saturating his briefs... Was it him or her? Nibbling at her collarbone, hands on her hips, agony is ecstasy and he jerks up, involuntarily, form fitting perfectly to the space between Cuddy's legs. He wants to take the briefs off, pull, rip, tear, _burn_ them, he needs flesh on flesh, _in _flesh but she is in control, setting the pace, his boss, administratively lascivious, rocking rhythmically. From her collarbone he traverses upward kissing, licking, sucking her neck, her chin, biting her bottom lip. House whispers something, neither offensive nor romantic below her ear and in their labored breadths all she hears is "need." Cuddy pulls away,leaning, her breasts falling away from him. House's center plummets at the thought that she has changed her mind, come to her senses...

Obscurity, blackness, the world disappears a moment. His eyes adjust.She has only flipped a switch. Returning in darkness, highlights remain. House's eyes project light of their own, street lamps, starlight, a stare. Dulling one sense has only heightened all the others. She examines She examines him calculatingly in the rain's reflection as if, in this moment she detects not just his vulnerability or instability, but his sincerity. Landing above his upper lip, the first kiss is off and sloppy, but House recovers it, his arms clasping around her back, his tongue invading her mouth, she writhes against him, in need of a more thorough penetration. Tongues rolls against teeth then their mouths part.

Magnetically drawn down,always down, she nuzzles his neck, almost purring. A hot breath at the crosssection of his chest hair and she ventures lower, until her face is just above his erection. She tugs at the underwear, teasingly, one side and then the other until she reveals what she has instigated. Letting the briefs rest above his knees, covering most of his scar, she continues tantalizing him with her mouth. She starts at his left hip, hot wet kisses, and then an appearance by her tongue. Licking the crease between his thigh and testicles, Cuddy continues encircling his erection,not yet giving him what he wants. Long, dark locks tickle him as she moves to the other hip. When her mouth makes contact, she gets peripheral glimpse while he stiffens more, and then she stiffens at the sight of anticipatory fluid escaping his engorged cock. But Cuddy does not relent. With each of House's gasps, each moan, her tongue slides deeper, outlining every fiber of his manhood until finally resigning her resistance, her tongue glides slowly up the underside of his shaft.

"Call me sweet sauce..." A murmur, a safe-word. This is House being sentimental. Begging. Cuddy is no stranger to compromise. She answers his plea, knowing what it means and not wanting an end in sight. Rising, slippery lips smiling and her clit throbbing, she rolls off for a moment, and he tosses the underwear that had reached his ankles by osmosis to a far corner of her bedroom.Throwing himself on top of her, House demands control. Hardly giving her a chance to react, he decides reciprocity is due, and initiates a similar torture with no intention of stopping until she is as near eruption as he is.

Flushed, naked bodies now, nearly parallel as his mouth descends onto hers, pushing, his tongue exploring deeper and deeper. Cuddy's hands frantically run across his back, his erection pressing into her leg, and a nearby crevice. Both are barely breathing, misguided fingers tangled in her hair, her sweat on the tips. They do part, but only for House to return with one more kiss and a shared gasp. Moving lower, he sucks one nipple, unable to resist and she moans. A serene sound, whetting Lisa Cuddy's pleasure. His tongue slithers between her breasts, his bottom lip outlining her cleavage. He tries to swallow her, to fit more of her into his mouth than any man ever has. Or ever will. Lifting his weight up now, his lips rise from her skin, and he looks at her smirking, a confused look on Cuddy's face then, pelvises grind and there's one last kiss,merely a distraction. While his mouth was occupying her mind, his hand was exploring her body. Instantaneously he gropes her from behind, rubbing her once more closer against his hardness and then jerks away, his throbbing member immediately replaced by an eager hand. To feel her from the inside, a longing about to be attained. House brushes her clit, then rubs it before inserting a finger, and then another, pulling out, pushing back in, knowing the exact spot to massage...

The man's knowledge of human anatomy has superfluous benefits. He continues this pattern a few minutes, as she throbs, writhes, swells beneath him. Enjoying watching her face, teeth clenched, eyes closed when the pressure's firm, he occasionally hovers to share a breath, suck at her neck. And in doing so, hears something. Until this, the experience had been original, devoid of flashbacks or recollections. But now it all comes rushing forth.

"Greg," she utters, barely audible.

Definitely would not have heard it had his ear not been so near her mouth. With one word, his first name, comes the thought of the last time. It was after all, the last time she called him Greg. Panicked, wavering his momentum slows noticeably. House fears this is a repeat. Another one night stand, induced by guilt and a plethora of unchecked emotions only to end in regret, disappointment and impotent potential. Is it just sex? Then a strange feeling in his chest as he realizes he's not afraid of it being something more, he's afraid of it being nothing at all.

Again. He's afraid of five more years of denial. Of the impossibility of this happening tomorrow, or the next day. He wants to say something, '_Lisa'_, recite a sonnet, negotiate a truce, but nothing comes.

This time must be different.

Cuddy caresses his face as the thought evaporates.

His hand covered generously in Cuddy's natural lubricant, fingers come up, leaving her in frustration. Running them along her arm, he prepares to penetrate her now, both of them in unbearable unrest. He does permeate the fervid orifice and in a moment that pangs both of them, comes to the awareness that his leg will not let him. He knows its boundaries,knows the stamina of the circumstance. The long slow session that was about to commence would be more than one leg could muster. So House sighs, falling to the bed, resting on his back a fraction of a second before pulling her on top of him. Begging, insisting commanding in a glare, to be ridden. Climbing on top of him seizing control, Cuddy has a candid moment. Simple and unadulterated silence as a predawn breeze wanders in. House's eyes closed in anticipation, she bends down to kiss them, resting her forehead on his, her whole ody relaxing flat on his, forming a horizon. Unbridled vulnerability, both souls defenseless when his eyes open. Their lips touch but it's not a kiss, no rather it is an impulse. A mutual need to touch as much of one's bare skin to the other's. A carnal reflex, the first line of an epilogue, as close to romance as either heart will allow itself. A deep breath. Time recompresses. Both minds race to catch up to the moment, their destination to remain in it as long as possible.

House's hands cradle her face as he relents control. Guiding him in with a single stroke, both gape, eyes closed. With the roll of thunder, a street light flickers, impersonating lightening. House opens his eyes first, to the delight of ecstasy on this friend's face. Strength, patience, pride, this was making love to Lisa Cuddy.

She sits up, their bodies perpendicular as her hips rise slowly and come back down. Cuddy pushes the hair from her face, letting herself get lost in the rhythm. 'Oh yeah,' House thinks, 'she's fantasized about this, about doing it again.' It relieved him to see her so satisfied.

God she was sexy. _God_ she was good.

The sight of her on top of him,sweating, panting, a subtle growl,is enough to push him over the edge. Normally this wouldn't bother House, but he vowed to make tonight different. To make it extraordinary somehow. Prolonged pleasure and devastatingly deep penetration seemed extraordinary enough. Putting his hands on her hips he grunts imperceptibly, suppressing a scream, suppressing profanity.

Hips bucking he takes control of the rhythm and pace slowing, stalling even.

"God..." escapes her lips. Tired of being taunted, Cuddy arches her back before lowering onto him. She rests her hands on his shoulders, and moves with him on each thrust, the intensity escalates. His bucking becomes more urgent, the pace changes subtly. Their eyes connect as he reaches for her face, one hand on each side. unyielding gravity, attraction, magnetism, some combination in transparency. They see through eachother, and they see eachother.They always have. House exhales then kisses her relentlessly - on her chin, her cheek, a corner of her mouth, her temple.

Here it happens, the difference, the deviation, the apex,

"I love you," he reveals. A confession. Muttered, it escapes without his consent, as one word. A whisper, low but audible. A secret divulged to the only person he can trust left in the world. Fear of abandonment, rejection, fear of fear, all pass with the last syllable.

Cuddy questions what she hears only because it is unexpected. Unprepared and uncertain there is one last pause where she solely enjoys the physical connection. Then,

"I know."

She rocks silently, holding her breath. House's eyes are closed as he holds her tighter, thrusts deeper. Somehow he has exceeded expectations she was unaware she had. He was inside Lisa Cuddy. Deep. The thought alone was enough to make him come. Her soul an impenetrable fortress, her body the like. To be inside her made him happy- reunion as union, but he could never let her know. A mere nicety. A formality of their undefined relationship.

Images fill his mind in the darkness. Beyond the silhouette of her immaculate body House sees a storm. Not the one occurring simultaneously in their nook of New Jersey, no a storm at sea. Torrential, linear sheathes of rain baptizing him against his will. The horizon inscrutable, the darkness all encompassing. With a flash of fire, of lightening, the bow abruptly breaks and the ship begins capsizing. Then he discovers he's not alone. He was never alone. And now they're sinking, the tide high, the turbulence of the waves forcing them into eachother's arms.They sink below. Together. Alone.

Present circumstances are nearly as dire. The man envies the woman seeing her as both a stranger and his best friend. A paradox. An anomaly. His passion. Was Lisa Cuddy a puzzle? Is this all just some game? The initial attraction he tries to recall but his blood is boiling.

Exhausted, sweat soaked Cuddy is frantically humping him now. As much for his relief as her own self serving purporse. She's lifting herself completely off and repetitiously impaling herself, the friction on his glans inconceivable, the spot he's hitting exact. Squinting and kissing his chest near his heart, she squeals, her muscles contracting around him, House pull her mouth to his, trying to talk at the same.

He knows she is close.

Administrative need, he would say, as her pelvis collides into his, up and down, impatiently seeking the pressure on her clit. His hand sneaks in between them and draws circles around it, applying the pressure that she needs. He is close also. But this time had to be different. Focusing on her, his balls tighten, sixteen shades of blue by now, he thinks. Nothing is more romantic than simultaneous orgasm, an insurmountable truth in the back of his mind. It is rare,dependent on chemistry, on timing, on want. Promises will not be broken, tonight will not be the like last time. Staring at her now, he's trying to interpret her unutterable utterances. When he removes his hand from her clit and the girating slows, Cuddy is entranced. She's looking at House but not seeing him, he knows. Pumping into her as they synchronize, he kisses her, tenderly and with eyes open. Counting, holding his breath, waiting. Then her orgasm begins, the shape of her mouth a revelation, their lips touching, their mouths wide open,combining air, exchanging life. Her eyes are closed but House blinks only once as he comes, not wanting to miss the smallest thing, engraving this moment in his memory, he memorizes her expression, records her desperate, almost angry scream, while he fills her with tangible,sticky heat. Rapture as a second load escapes him,undeniable joy,uncontrollable pleasure to share this feeling with another person.Intensified exponentially because the person is her. Torrid, dripping spasms linger, the gratification reminiscent to both of them. Long, awaited simultaneity is sweet. A rush of blood to House's head and he's dizzy, frozen as her body collapses on his. They are weak, overwhelmed by the rare sensations just aroused in eachother. By eachother.A minute. Two. Three. Five. House is somehow still hard and thereforestill inside her, afraid perhaps of ending the connection,of ending the night. Trembling in his arms, her core quivers as Cuddy writhes sleepily on theverge of another orgasm, almost not wanting it to happen, not wanting to admit he is this good. Achingly slow rocking on one of the largest cocks that hasever been inside her. She's taut, saturated, stuffed. They both want this and slowly it builds. When he can tell she's near again, he stops her, they don't move, it builds. Mere seconds then, one slow thrust, he juts up, and both surrender again, as she clenches around him, milking him, a full body climax, two really. It's as good as the first, it lasts and they hold their breath, letting it sears through them, making it linger.

After a sensual sigh, Cuddy rests her head on his chest able, in the moment, to hear only the sound of his heartbeat. Hers must bedrumming loudly, but she chooses to ignore it.Their stares intercept eachother. The air is still, the storm has past.

Through all they said and did that night, even through his appalling sentimentality, they are both reminded of something - an elusive line, a fragment of lost words, that they had heard somewhere long ago. For a moment a phrase tries to take shape in House's mouth and his lips part, as though there is more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But neither make a sound and what they almost remember is uncommunicable forever. A relic of the past, a ghost of yesterday. This time is different.

Cuddy, defeated, closes her eyes and is asleep within minutes. House can't relax, compelled now to watch the sun rise with this woman in his arms. Something about watching her sleep fascinates him. Hearing her breathe, touching her skin as it cools. It permeates his calloused emotional barricade. It calms him. If this had happened out of guilt, again it was no matter. The past is always there, the present does not last. But both are thinking about the future. An orgastic future that year by year recedes before them. It eluded them both before, but no matter, tomorrow they will run faster, reach farther...

Until one fine morning -

But it is still night. And with this House is content.


	3. Beautiful Mourning

III. Beautiful Mourning

As dawn crests the sun shines a horizontal highlight below this sad man's eyeline and Cuddy awakens. Her head rises off of his chest and she considers how beautiful he is in the soft blue light.

Her lips rise to his ear and graciously,

"I love you too, House." A promise more than a revelation.

But House is not really sleeping. He wants to open his eyes, to acknowledger _her_ sentimentality. But in that moment of hesitation she kisses him on the cheek and falls to his side, and he knows no words can sustain this feeling. Soon, Cuddy falls back asleep, the warmth of the morning sun making them both drowsy. Eventually House dozes off, but only briefly.

As the morning passes, they lie close, both in a fetal position, facing eachother. He is watching her when her eyes open,their legs tangled, a hand on hers. The air is fresh, a motionlessgaze then,

"The rain stopped," he says in his post tryst voice, almost romantic.

Cuddy smiles, back to the window, she turns surprised to see a blue sky, the same color as his eyes. Biting her bottom lip suddenly aware she's naked, she looks back at him, a victim of that hue. She's trying to read him, but it's never that simple.

No tears. No pity. Less fear. Both are speechless. If nothing else there is a mutual understanding. House's eyes travel down her body, taking notes on the details of a recently coital Dean of Medicine's body. Beautiful, the only adjective his mind can generate, her body tangled in bedsheets, her face meeting a pillow. Even with last night's make up smeared, most of it washed away by sweat, she was shining, flawless. Scared of what he suspects he's feeling (a four letter wordwith _unconditional_ in front it) he speaks,

"How's your foot?"

He twiddles her toes with his own, flirting. Cuddy pulls the sheet up a few inches, revealing that the body part in question is in fact quite magenta.

"Bruised."

A prolonged blink, then she sits up, dangling her legs over the edge of the bed.

As her feet touch the floor, "You can use my cane if you want."

Ignoring the sarcasm, Lisa Cuddy limps to her bathroom, the voyeur that is her lover,was and still is rather, watching. He considers going in,being domestic, peeing while she brushes her teeth, whatever married people do, but doesn't. It's her home and she's entitled to privacy. She doesn't take long, her step anxious, her expression anything but ordinary when she returns to the bed. Sitting beside him Cuddy goes to say something but he sits up behind her, putting her between his legs and touching his lips to the place where her neck meets the shoulder. It's a gentle kind of 'good morning' kiss, more sensitive than either of them may have conceived.

Begging his heart to be still, he pulls away, as if hurt.

"I should go."

Immediately and louder than intended, "No."

Cuddy realizes that was a demand and continues almost apologetically,

"I mean, I'm going to make coffee. And I have today off. You have a few weeks off. Will you stay atleast for coffee?"

House nods, unsure if she would even take 'no' for an answer. He doesn't really want to go though, he was testing her, out of fear of overstaying his welcome. Experimenting with her state of mind, trying to decipher the language of the page he wants them to both be on. It was a Rosetta stone really,one they carved into every hundred years, scrawling secrets, recording regrets only for it to be untranslatable. He stood after her, leaving the natural light of the bedroom for the kitchen fluorescence.

The coffee maker was making that noise that coffee makers make. A creature comfort. And the aroma that was suffocating House was gourmet, he surmised, imported from a Spanish speaking country of unimportant specificity. No doubt the cup she was about to pour him would be the equivalent of ten dollars. Bare feet on her tiles, House creeps up behind her, peering his head over her shoulder, tipping a toe in tepid waters. Wanting to kiss her again.

Always wanting to kiss her.

"How do you take yours?"

A disappointed blink.

"Black's fine." He resigns to his seat.

Cuddy brings the coffee over and sits, crossing her legs. House's elbow on the table, he rests his head on his fisted hand, leering at her cleavage and thinking. This felt formal. Forced. They were supposed to be in bed, watching cartoons, spilling orange juice on cotton sheets, not at a kitchen table sipping expensive coffee with crossed legs.

"How do you feel?"

A dangerous question. It was only Cuddy being concerned but still an open invitation. Normally for something sardonic, but this morning was different, on the last syllable they both realized as much. House was about to be honest.

"Tricky question, being that there was an exchange of bodily fluids oh, all of five hours ago."

"That's not what-"

"Relieved," cutting her off.

"You feel relieved that we slept together?"

"I feel relieved. And we slept together. Could just be a coincidence."

"Okay."

"How do you feel?"

"My foot hurts, I'm tired..."

House shakes his head. She's avoiding eye contact. This isn't right.

"Last night was..." Cuddy trails off.

The duration of the pause that follows is too long.

House repeats, "Last night was..."

House at this point is expecting two words: 'a' and 'mistake'. But to his

surprise,

"Incredible."

This doesn't project from her mouth eloquently. It's mumbled and hesitant, but he smiles anyway having gotten the confession he wanted. It is more than he expects, hardly detecting any regret, satisfied enough to let it go. If she wants to say more she will.

"Got any sugar?"

"I thought you wanted it black?"

"I did. Now I don't anymore. This gourmet stuff is bitter."

House slurps childishly as she hands him the sugar. There he was, his hand on a spoon in Cuddy's sugar. Imagine that.

"Really, how's your head?"

"Spinning. But I suppose you have that effect on all men who fall foolishly onto your mattress."

Cuddy scowls, a little relieved, since she was expecting a more explicit aside.

"I'm fine."

Cuddy tries not to worry. House is terrified. Both afraid the other is in some kind of hurry to say goodbye. Neither want this to be the morning after.

"How's your leg?"

Sternly, "Fine."

After another minute of overpriced coffee sipping, House stands, limping to her living room, cozying up on the couch and turning on the TV.

"What are you doing?"

"You were boring me. So I abandoned you for my other mistress, television."

Cuddy sits down beside him as House settles on the cartoons of his domestic dream. After a few minutes she bends her knees, bringing her legs up to her chest,rubbing her foot. On this motion House slips his arm around her, feeling sixteen, and oddly inexperienced. But not uncomfortable. While she can tell he's looking at her and not the TV, Cuddy steals the remote away from him, and changes the channel. House sighs in frustration, but does not speak. Both are now awkwardly aware of the arm wrapped round her, but embrace it anyway.

Soon the television disappears, the glow of the interlaced images casting shadows on the wall. Cuddy sees his ear, and he's staring at her knees, both trying to rationalize the moment, uncertain what to say next. A thumb circles one of her knees, he's being playful.

"Your knees are soft."

A beat. And another.

"It 's going to all be okay, House."

The phrase escapes jumbled but honest, anything but a platitude.

"Wilson will come back, you'll talk,this will pass."

"This?" Asking as he stops fondling her leg.

Cuddy shrugs, conspicuously bothered by the absence of her own answer.

"What are we now anyway?"

"We're..."

And then it dawns on her, it's simple really.

"...here. "

Then,

"We're friends."

If you cant' stay in place you can't tell who's walking away. Who remains, who stays. Only a thought as House sees the entire world falling from him. Swimming against the current, drowning now angry at the water, angry at the universe. But not angry at her.

At the same moment both wonder what the other is thinking.

"You're desperate to have somebody jump on you and tell you they love you one grunted syllable at a time..." Cuddy's thought, as she recalls his evaluation verbatim. Hoping that's not all last night was.

Granted, _hope is for sissies,_but still, she hopes.

Is this running away?

If it is, they're both running, in different directions and at variable speeds. For this woman to run she must want something, she could stop now, turn around, return, stop denying herself the inevitable. But Greg House was a truth she would rather lose than never laid beside at all,

"It wasn't guilt."

House looks at her, not completely sure what the outburst is referencing.

"I never slept with you out of guilt."

"Pity then. Same difference."

"I slept with you because I wanted to, House. And...I run away from what I want."

Flattered that she is quoting him, he absorbs the affirmation, aware of its truth.

"I know."

An understatement. He always knew. Even now, he knows more about her than she does herself. Cuddy's legs lean towards him, her arm settles in a space low and behind his back. House closes his eyes as the low hum of the television drones a while, the sound soon dissipating.

Beneath the tousled hair, and under the fractured skull, House's mind wanders. About choices, about chance, about Cuddy.


	4. A More Perfect Fall

IV. A More Perfect Fall

An incandescent fixture illuminates one side of House's face as he broods in his own self loathing. Despair he knows will never pass settles on him again, after a brief spell in its absence that was last night. This was all more than a blunder, more than a mistake. The man didn't believe in fate. He didn't believe things were out of his control, but he does now.

After all the lives he's saved, it seems the only one that matters, that has any lasting, permanent effect on his own, is the one he could not save. A tragic irony,and even he suspects as much is deserved . Gregory House is home now, alone again, forced into his own undesirable company.

A tinge of guilt pricks him about last night, uncertain if he took advantage,questioning now if too much was said. Trying to make this problem more than it is, trying in vain to distract himself from the unease of not knowing the future, of not knowing if his best friend hates him, feeling like a murderer, he drinks. Whiskey. With an 'e'. Not the same as scotch. All scotches are whisky but not all whiskey is scotch. A complicatedfact of life. Or atleast of his.

An irreparable heart, thub-dubbing in his chest, torn in an attempt to resolve how he's made such a mess of everything. On top ofthe list- sex with Cuddy. How did his balls go from being in her vice grip to being in her mouth? This is why Wilson was better as a friend, man's best companion is man. Simpler scenarios, beer, chips, mini golf. Of course not even this much is true anymore.

Now as never before, House is paying a high price for living too long and with such irreverence, such contempt. It will be a new world after Amber,material without being real, where poor ghosts, shadows of his self, haunt him until there is forgiveness.

From who, he knows not, as nobody remains.

Time passes. An uncertain amount. To sleep without dreaming, House drinks. Restoring the memory of the bus crash has left him with horrifying nightmares. The worst are the ones that seem portentous, precipatory, as if when he awakens he can prevent it all from happening. Sweat, panic and every time he closes his eyes he sees Amber's face. A memory of Wilson in the hospital is what he holds onto. Neither comforting or intolerable, seeing Wilson move farther away from him remains an image replaying, always in his mind.

Yesterday, today, and tomorrow are just words but now they are the same as pain. Misery can only escalate. House thought he was losing his best friend when he entered the bar that night. Now he really has lost him,and an infinite deal more.Alone. With his cane. With his vicodin. With his conscience. The appeal of suicide is beginning to entice him. Feeling solely responsible for Amber's death, his own seems symmetrically appropriate. And nobody would really miss him anyway. Not really. A medical background, a priceless asset in this potential endeavor, he is ruminating about a dozen quick, painless ways to do it. Then, the phone rings. In the first vibration of the air that the sound creates, there is hope. Attack, sustain, decay and as soon as the first ring finishes all hope is gone. He knows it's not Wilson. He hesitates even to answer and confirm his disappointment. But eventually he does, hoping that chance is in his favor for a change.

But it is not. The telemarketer greets him with an announcement about how mortgage payments have never been lower, and his heart breaks a little. As the receiver falls from his fingertips, a transformation takes place in the silence. Anger diminishes. House realizes that it was the same self pity that put him in the bar that night, and he throws the near empty bottles of bourbon and scotch away. He showers, shaves away ten days worth of whiskers, and deals with the puddle of vomit beside his bed. When the hangover passes, he realizes his head doesn't hurt anymore and tells himself he's recovered.

There is no God in his heart, he knows; his ideas are still in riot; there was ever pain of the remembering; the regret, yet the waters of disillusion had left a deposit on his soul. Everybody dies, he tries to convince himself. That night he would sleep, free his conscience from the penitentiary it had been condemned to, if only for a few unconscious hours.The rest of the day is spent meandering. He reads, plays piano, considers going to the hospital to bother Cuddy and convince her he is coping. But doesn't. There was nothing he could have done to save Amber,he tells himself. He told her to go home, she didn't have to get on the bus, "It's not my fault. No. It's not my fault."

Denial was a strange state for Greg House. He was uncomfortable lying to himself. His objectivity and intellect told him he knew better. They were screaming at him, hopeless to ignore. But, everybody lies.

"I 'm selfish," he thinks.

"This isn't something that changes when I 'see human suffering' or 'help others.'"

This selfishness is not only a part of House. It is the most living part. It is by somehow transcending rather than avoiding that selfishness that he can bring poise and balance back into his life. But House does not know this. All he does know is that there is no virtue of unselfishness that can erase or negate this blunder. No sacrifices, no charitable deeds, no thing he could give or endure that would alleviate any of the pain of his actions.

The last person who will ever forgive House is House.

Tonight he lay in bed with nothing but hatred for himself. Hating the choices he's made, hating his ego, hating that through it all he still has no intention of ever changing. Grimaced, even with closed eyes as he falls asleep.

With a complete lack of grace, House staggers out of bed. It's morning, he thinks. Another storm and now his clock is blinking 12:00. And not entirely inaccurate. It is afternoon and as he empties his bladder, the leg pain is almost too much. A strange sound from the living room, but not much of a priority as he brings a hand to his face and swallows the three vicodin in it.

Looking at himself in the mirror, his eyes more glassy than they should be, revolting is theimage that he loathes. A sad, plain face and lucid, blue eyes, the definition of his suffering. Another noise from the living room,but he passes it off as a pile of books falling. And by books he of course means porn.

Limping slowly and cautiously to the kitchen grasping at his right leg along the way, House notices something, a purse on his couch,he goes to turn he body toward it but his legs give out, both of them,the left too tired from supporting the right's share. And he falls. Arms reach out to keep him from dropping completely and help him reclaim his balance and stance. Familiar arms, with small fingers and impeccable timing, refusing to falter. He cannot recall a more perfect fall because when he looks up into her eyes, it doesn't hurt at all.

House humiliated by his weakness,

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to talk to you."

Cuddy, as unobtrusively as she can, helps him to the couch.

"How long have you been here?"

"Not long, you were sleeping when I came in."

"Rough night?"

"I came to ask you for a favor."

"Really? I just assumed you were here to dispense more sympathy sex. That is part of your job description isn't it?"

She ignores him. The circles under her eyes tell him she's serious.

"I've got a patient."

She gets a file out of her purse. Her hands tremble a little and House notices.

"You run a hospital, I would think there'd be more than one."

"Female, mid forties. Came into the clinic a week ago complaining of fever, nausea, flu like symptoms and a rash. Treated for an allergy. Returns to the ER three days ago in respiratory distress, a temperature of 103, and infected lesions that resemble smallpox. She's quarantined in the ICU..."

"Hypothyroidism?"

"ER tested her thyroid on admission."

"Atherosclerosis...and the flu, explains blisters, fever and breathing."

Cuddy shakes her head. House takes the case file.

"I know you're on leave, and I hate to even ask, but this woman will die if we don't figure out what's causing all this. I've got your team working on it, although Hadley has taken a few personal days. You don't even have to go in if you don't feel like it just do what you do from here, and call me or your team, if you think of anything."

House nods. Cuddy throws her head back, exhausted and closes her eyes. In an attempt to be charming House slumps and rests his head on her shoulder. Minutes pass. Calmed by the sound of her breathing, he goes to lay his lips on the lower nook of her neck, but she moves, awakening and sitting up before he can. Just the same, he rarely prevails in quiet acts of unspoken sentiment anyway.

Cuddy puts a hand on his shoulder, picking up her purse.

"Thank you."

As she stands in the doorway,

"Cuddy, everything okay?"

"Fine. I'm just tired," yawning as she leaves.

Jotting down symptoms and connections to diseases, the day passes quickly outside the hospital. He fills a notebook with more ideas and uncertainty.

Possibility.

Somewhere in House's mind a conversation begins, rather resumes its placein his attention, it's composed not of two voices but of one which acts as questioner and answerer:

Question: Well,differential?

Answer: Woman, forties, lesions, fever, respiratory distress.

Q: Prime suspects?

A: That haven't been acquitted? viral hepatitis, hyperkalemia, intestinal

parasites, influenza, pericarditis, drug use, certain autoimmune...

Q: Which autoimmune?

A: Sarcoidosis, systemic lupus erythematosus...

Q: And?

A: Grave's disease.

Q: They already discounted her thyroid.

A: Right.

Q: So?

A: Tuberous sclerosis, lymphangioleiomyomatosis. LAM explains dyspnea,

the flu symptoms and respiratory problems.

Q: And the lesions?

A: Her immune system is failing her, why can't it be an infection?

Q: Small pox?

A: She's been vaccinated. Nothing strange in her history except breast cancer and early menopause. LAM's your best bet.

Q: It's rare.

A: So? Atleast it's not boring.

Q: Are you going to call your team before she goes into a coma?

No answer. He picks up the phone and gets Foreman, telling him to try plasma exchange on the patient, which will cleanse her blood of the antibodies responsible for her immune system's failure. Foreman listens but orders a test for tuberous sclerosis to confirm. House calls Cuddy to boast arrogantly about the fact he diagnosed a rare multisystemic disorder in a few hours from the comfort of his own living room, but no answer. He tries again fifteen minutes later, but stillno answer.

Deciding he feels like celebrating he heads out. He knows where he'll end up, but takes his time getting there.

House rings the doorbell, waits. A light is on inside, and her car is in the driveway. Rings again. Is she ignoring him? Why now? How could she even know it's him? And then his heart sinks. Immediately and without hesitation he reaches for her spare key from the spot he knows she keeps it and runs in, knowing something is wrong.

Feet, he sees feet. Tiny, no longer bruised, far back near her bedroom. House dashes to her unconscious body prostrate on the floor. A hand is to her neck, checking her pulse before his knee touches ground. He lifts her head up, limp in his hands and looks at her face, for swelling, examining her head for an injury. His face is panic. The kind of disaster victims. Of a person about to witness a trainwreck, a car crash, an execution.

"Cuddy, can you hear me?" His voice cracks.

The faintest lament from her lips.

Dialing before his cell phone is even out of his pocket,

" I need an ambulance..."


	5. A Personal Epiphany

The wail of sirens interrupts House's dire awareness. Cuddy is unconscious, barely breathing, on a stretcher in an ambulance with him at her side. He's watching her vitals, trying not to look at her,trying to stay detached, trying not to care as much as he denies does. Her eyes open slowly, their first sight is House's arm, adjusting her oxygen. Then his eyes, and the confidence in them when he realizes she's awake.

"You're in an ambulance," he tells her calmly. Then,

"I need to know why you passed out. Did you take anything? Do you have any other symptoms?"

A long pause as Cuddy struggles to form the words,

"I just couldn't breathe."

"Anything else?"

She shakes her head, and House looks back at the monitor to see she is running a fever. Cuddy struggles with each breadth and House adjusts her oxygen again, before the paramedic can reach it, in need of something to distract him away from the pang of seeing her suffer.

When they reach the hospital, Cuddy is somehow worse. She's wheezing, gasping, fluid filling her lungs. Her temperature has gone up and House's mind is scanning all of the culprits that could be responsible. Still by her side, he delivers her to the ER doctors to let them run the tests he hopes will diagnose her. Away to his office he goes to devise a plan for when they all fail.

After an hour, Taub and Kutner enter, not expecting House's presence. "You were wrong about LAM, patient does not have tuberous sclerosis," Taub says, almost happy about the misdiagnosis.

"What does she have?"

"We don't know."

"Why are you both here?"

"We're waiting for blood cultures, we think it might be viral."

"Why are you here?" Kutner asks.

"I'm not. It's a mirage. Now go away."

"If you're not busy, technically this is your case."

"We could use your help."

"I am busy. And it's not my case. Pretend I'm not here."

House stands, walking to the white board. He writes 'fever, diff. breathing' in black marker. He thinks of how her hands trembled earlier and goes to write it down but is interrupted.

"We've ruled out allergic reaction and autoimmune."

"She's on a ventilator now and is starting to show neurological symptoms."

"Such as?" House remarks.

"Seizures," Taub says.

"She's in a coma," Kutner admits.

"Acute disseminated encephalomyelitis. Attacked her brain and stripped it of myelin, it's still LAM. It _can_ happen in women who don't have a heritable genetic disorder, like tuberous sclerosis.

"We tried steroids and intravenous immunoglobulin, but no improvement."

"I told you,plasmapheresis , you need to filter out the antibodies responsible

for her immune system's failure."

"But if we're wrong and it's viral..."

"Fine. Assume I'm wrong. Just leave," House shouts, exhaustedly.

Finally writing 'tremors' on the board, House struggles to remember if he saw any other symptoms in Cuddy earlier. Suddenly he feels guilty for having not seen her in a while. He may have noticed symptoms earlier, caught it in time. If only. Such is the idleness of afterthought.

It's been long enough, and House goes to see her, a visit he has been procrastinating for as long as he can. This is why he never visits patients. It interferes with objectivity. You see a person instead of a symptom. But he_ wants_ to see her.

Knowing he has already taken too much today, House swallows two more vicodin, needing to be numb for this. He rations his breaths as he enters, telling himself composure is all about breathing. Intimacy alarms him, it is something offensive when he is involved but in this case it is unavoidable.

The room is white, the personification of bleach in sight and smell. An assault on both senses. Cuddy is asleep, again he focuses on the monitors. With each descending peak of the EKG she seems a little farther away, just out of reach.

Except she's right here. And this is the dilemma. House wants to touch her to wake her even, but not for a diagnosis. For himself. He's being selfish again and chastises himself for it, exercising restraint as he remains beside her. Is he a romantic egotist or just a worried friend?

Cuddy hears him come in, the sound of his cane is soft as his feet shuffle. She feels him standing beside her and looks up to see him staring just past her.

"What are you looking at?" She asks.

His eyes shift, his heart thrilled at the sound of her voice.

"Boobs mostly."

"How long have I been here?"

"A few hours. Do you remember passing out?"

"I remember going home early, I thought I had the flu..."

She scratches her arm.

"Anything else?"

"Fever, fatigue, for a few days. I thought it just turned into an upper respiratory infection."

"Any numbness, pain, swelling, vision disturbances? Anything other than the fever and difficulty breathing?"

"No," scratching her neck.

"What do they think it is, pneumonia, pleurisy?"

"I don't know," shaking his head. And,

"They're still running tests. Chem panel came back negative for all strains of influenza. Chest x-rays revealed a lung infection, looks like pneumonia..."

"But you don't think it is?"

A beat.

" I... don't know."

Biting her bottom lip, vexation fills Cuddy's face, the kind that does on the rare occasion of Greg House's uncertainty. House is always certain he is right even when he isn't. To see him doubting himself was unsettling.

She wants to talk with him now. She had wanted to talk with him for some time but always occupied herself otherwise. Both scared, both scarred neither have any idea where they stand. Relationship has too many syllables for their mouths to repeat. And now fear compels her to be silent, to stop asking questions. She reaches out her hand, an admission of this fear and House goes to grasp it. But, Kutner's head and voice project through the doorway breaking a bond before it forms.

"House, need you."

Augury.

Had House taken her hand,he may have seen the rash on the underside of her arm. Before it spreads. Before she gets any worse. But he doesn't, instead he stands, with a most pissed off look on his face, and follows Kutner.

"Patient's liver enzymes are off the charts."

"Liver failure puts her case back in the unsolved pile."

"So, her liver is failing..."

"That's not a symptom of LAM," Taub intercedes a chart in hand.

"And we still can't explain the blisters."

"Blisters are an infected rash, we explain the rash we explain the blisters," House states, not quite finished,

"Dermatitis? Maculopapular eruptions? I assume she's had her MMR."

"No allergy, no dermatitis, she's had all the baby boomer vaccinations."

"No measels, no allergy, well, this woman must really be sick."

They've reached said patient's room. Her name is Kris Andersen, but House will never call her by it. She is alone, unconscious,and intubated. House approaches her, putting on a latex glove and lifts her arm examining the blisters. Then he lifts her other arm, and the blanket to look at her legs and see the pattern, and how much it's spread of .

"Lyme disease fits," House says.

Kris's husband enters while House is suspiciously looking under the woman's blanket.

"I hope you're her doctor," the man says to House.

"Nah. Theses guys are, I'm just a pervert."

Not sure if he's joking or not, the husband looks at Taub and Kutner, who offer little reassurance.

"MRI her brain for cerebral hypoperfusion, see if Lyme disease is the cause of her encephalitis and start her on a hundred milligrams doxycycline, before she slips any deeper into a coma," House says.

And they obey.

House returns to his office, the white board offers some solace.

He erases Cuddy's symptoms and begins a new list:

_Fever_

_Rash_

_Encephalitis (seizures/coma)_

_Pneumonia_

_Liver failure_

House sits, alone and scrutinizing his written word. His back itches and he scratches it with the marker. Before he can write the next symptom, it itches again, lower and he scratches it absently. He's thinking of Cuddy. He's always thinking of Cuddy but now his mind won't venture to any other thought.

And then the epiphany.

As he remembers Cuddy scratching earlier, his lips part. Pins, needles, the thought. It is like an anvil dropping on his chest. It is the moment he wishes he had no gift for solving puzzles, for seeing the interconnectedness of _everything._

House stands and races to the MRI suite. Entering the booth where Taub and

Kutner sit,

"She doesn't have Lyme disease."

"What? How do you know?"

"Whatever she has is contagious, because Cuddy has the same thing."

The man disappears before they can respond.

One place, one room, his only destination. He walks now, nearly running, the leg pain is his last thought. His right leg holds him in this quick stride because he gives it no choice. To save his own life it would not strain this hard.

House enters her room fast, gallantly even, seeing only the focal point of his journey. He bridges the gap between the door and her bed, and takes her arms.

She turns and looks up at him, helplessly. He lifts one arm and as he feared there is a rash where he saw her scratch earlier. Pulling down the bedsheets to reveal her legs, the rash is everywhere and he swallows hard, almost choking at the sight. His voice weary,he calls for a nurse's assistance.

"What is it, House?"

And he tells her she has the same thing as her patient.

A return to familiar surroundings, House is back in his office. The white board, Taub and Kutner his only company. The board now reads:

_Fever_

_Rash_

_Encephalitis (seizures/coma)_

_Pneumonia_

_Liver failure_

_contagious/infectious_

And a conversation begins:

House: What disease is contagious and causes fever, rash, encephalitis, pneumonia, and liver failure? Differential diagnosis, gentlemen.

Kutner: Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia.

Taub: She was tested for HIV, and has no autoimmune disease.

House: He's right PCP wouldn't affect both of them.

Taub: Hepatitis.

Kutner: Not this fast, and not in both of them.

House: Differential diagnosis will never lead anywhere if tweedle dumb keeps refuting everything tweedle dee says. What about the incubation period, we're looking for something that doesn't show symptoms right away.

Taub: How long?

House: About a week between when Cuddy treated this woman and the rash appearing.

Kutner: Scarlet fever.

Taub: If it were scarlet fever I would have it.

Kutner: Not necessarily.

House: Maybe Taub has a point maybe there's a reason two women have this and no men. How's her husband?

Taub: Healthy, I mean I've seen him eat about fifty hotdogs since his wife was admitted but other than that...

House: So we're looking for something with a gender bias.

Kutner: Infectious diseases don't have a gender bias, they can't look under your

skirt or tell if you pee sitting down or standing.

Taub: He's right.

House: True, but what would make a disease affect a woman differently than a man? Other of course, than the fact that they are weak and indefensible by nature?

Hmph. That comment works better when there's actually woman in the room.

Kutner: Women's immune systems can be compromised in more ways than a man's.

House: Such as?

Taub: Stress and chronic fatigue affect women more than men. Heart disease and thyroid conditions.

Kutner: Grave's disease.

House: _Grave's _ isn't contagious.

Taub: There is still a possibility that they have two separate conditions.

House: With identical symptoms? Sure. Encephalitis and liver failure are next for

Cuddy if we don't figure out why this disease prefers girls.

Kutner: Kris's chart says she's going through menopause. Early menopause,that could be significant.

House rips the chart from his hands.

House: It says she started experiencing menopausal symptoms three months ago, not when she was twenty five.

And he throws the chart down.

Taub: But-

House: But? There are no buts in medicine. There are however huge, rotundous asses,the finest of which is on the brink of death in the ICU. And it's our job to save her. So can we focus here! ?

House tries not to look like he's bargaining. But he is.

And then an idea.

House: What if it's not menopause? Let's assume it's not. What would be the biggest factor to jeopardize her immunity?

All three speculate a moment to themselves and before Taub or Kutner utter what they decide, the word escapes Houses mouth as a revelation, self-realization and he knows what it means, what the women have in common, but under his breath it seems personal,

"Pregnancy."

On the last syllable their pagers sound. It is the only thing that keeps House's heart from sinking or his mind from a state of anarchy and upheaval.

Chaos in Kris's room. Her vitals are failing her bloodpressure is 210/111. She's still in coma but she's seizing. Jerking, twitching, the EKG is jumping unregulated, each wave's apex touching the ceiling. And then she flatlines.Taub and Kutner rush to resuscitate her, charging the defibrillator, paddles in hand. Once. Twice. Eight times they try. But she is gone.

Moments pass. Her husband comes in, slowly absorbing the tragedy. The man covers his face, not wanting them to see him cry. House notices a red bump on his hand and suddenly it all makes sense. He grabs the man's hand and looks at it quickly.

"Hand feeling itchy?"

"A little. It's just a spider bite, what does that have to do with anything?"

"Your wife wasn't going through menopause. She was pregnant."

He's trying to not be cold, but the man deserves an explanation.

"Varicella-zoster," House says to Taub and Kutner. Then,

"Your wife died of chicken pox. The same chicken pox that you have on your hand."

"What?"

"The virus attacked her immune system more aggressively because she was three months pregnant. And didn't know it. We were diagnosing on the belief she was menopausal, the thought never occurred..."

And he trails off, not wanting to be rude. Or abrasive. Or to make it sound like it was the husband's fault. Even though it was in a way. A familiar parallel, this man will have nearly as many demons to exorcise as House. Calloused as he is concerned, House if off for completion by putting into place,the final piece of the puzzle. He goes into Cuddy's room, takes a blood sample and leaves, not letting himself look at her. Not letting his mind entertain the possibility.

He takes it to the lab himself, not something he frequently does. With her life-blood _literally_ in his hands, House contemplates many things. Possibility. Probability. Cause and effect. Even as his gut tumults at the patriarchal prospect before him, it's not quite unease. Rather a change of plans. A byway. An unforeseen deviation. His hands shake a little with tangible evidence, tangible certainty in them. He contemplates about Cuddy. About that night. Unperceived, unimaginable fate intervening. Imperceptible in its first stages, he was beginning to understand now. Perhaps from a balance beam this was all occurring.

It is such a long way down.

And then an almost optimistic aside. Perhaps, yes only perhaps, life and death had a perfect symmetry. A sort of inevitable equilibrium. That maybe, the weight of Amber's death was being balanced on the scale of existence by this new life.

Or even now the _potential_ for a new life.

It was overwhelming, this extent of involvement, a thought final thought, as he reaches the lab. Approaching the only lab technician on call tonight in a lab crowded with samples, with too much work and not people,

"Pregnancy test."

He hands it over, a long blink at the consequences.Then,

"I'm not going to see those results until morning am I?"

The tech shakes his head. As House turns away,

"Hey, this isn't labeled."

"I know."

"Whose is it?"

"Patient Kris Andersen."

"I already did a pregnancy test for her."

"Yeah, but we just had sex. And now I'm worried," sarcasm simmering.

"Do it again." A demand, a command. And he walks away.

Seeking sanctuary and repose House decides to collect his thoughts one last time before seeing Cuddy. He enters his office and turns out the light so that nobody suspects. The door is locked and the moon and parking lot lights are sufficient. His last action was to start Cuddy on Zovirax for the chicken pox he had confirmed so he hopes Taub and Kutner are gone.

It is a strange world, he thinks and a strange life at that. The series of events leading to this moment have been instigated solely contingency, by chance. By fate or by a God he doesn't believe in, it doesn't matter. He knows the actions he must take. But for now he sits, thinking.

House feels relieved. He saved Cuddy, that's something right? House feels worry still, the kind that happens when you win the lottery and think, 'What do I buy first?''What do I need most?' 'What if it's not enough?' Nobody ever plays the lottery expecting to win. This is his situation. House feels sorrow. A patient died. One that he could otherwise have easily cured. But misinformation intervened. And objectivity was defeated. House feels many things but,for the first time in a long time, he does not feel guilty.

In the somber quiet of what is now early morning, House reaches for something. A keepsake, a memento,a reminder. It is taped to the top of the bottom drawer of his desk. A photograph of Lisa Cuddy. It is frayed and dogeared, the color faded much like memory itself. She is ten years younger. The picture was taken at a conference, by somebody else, and House stole it. He recognized her and was impressed. By her accomplishments, by her beauty, and by her breasts. And in that order although he'll never admit it. Still, he doesn't know why he has kept the photograph or why he felt compelled to take it in the first place. It is a kind of possessiveness, he supposes to be able to call her his. The infarction happened circa the same time,maybe that's it. For some reason, through all these years he has felt comfort in knowing she was not far from him. And, as he holds the photograph a moment longer, he realizes it may be mutual now and that he owes her as much. So he leaves, retreating from the familiarity of loneliness, leaving the picture of his past on his desk, instead of hidden within it.

On his way back to her room House's only thoughts are about union. Sex, marriage. Physical, documented, same difference. And he thinks about reunion. The circularity of events that comprise life and the justice that time upholds. Irony, tragedy and all the things he's experienced in the past month. Love, affection, he's trying to decide how it is all connected. Find a conduit, but he can't.

When he reaches her room she is sleeping, calmly, innocently. Unsuspectingly. He cannot bring himself to wake her. At this point, even if she were awake he is not sure what he would say. Or if he could say anything at all.

House sits in the still silence for a while. It is his turn to keep vigil. The nurse was supposed to reapply the calamine lotion an hour ago. Incompetent, he thinks. Standing, slowly he limps to her bedside, absorbing her majesty as she sleeps peacefully. She was august, sublime, sacred. In a world with no real truth, shewas it. Determining in that moment that she is strong. It has taken incredible strength for her to make it this far, in every respect. Then he begins to apply the lotion to any part of her body where the rash remains. A patch on an exposed part of her chest above her collarbone,a spot on her belly, another on her hip. Even in a tattered,worn hospital gown she was beautiful. In this moment he considers, and accepts that it's not just the body he admires, it is the woman. He's daubing her arm when she begins to stir. At the sight of eachother both are satisfied. Neither could possibly want more. Neither could possibly admit it. Cuddy feels her throat for an intubation incision, knowing the odds of one being there. As she regains cognizance, and the awareness that she is feeling better,

"What did she have?"

House continues daubing although it is unnecessary at this point. He just wants to touch her. Not knowing how this will end, or if he will ever touch her the same way again. Then,

"Varicella Pneumonia."

"She had the chicken pox?"

"Yes."

"So, I have the chicken pox?"

"Yes."

"Well, atleast she's alright."

House stops daubing, standing at her bedside like a shadow, a silhouette, a loved one. He's holding her hand now,but only arbitrarily, keeping her arm off the bed as the lotion dries.

"She died."

"What? From the chicken pox?"

"From multisystem organ failure. Her lungs, brain, and then her liver."

Confusion casts on Cuddy's face.

"She was pregnant."

These last three words escape like three separate sentences, three paragraphs. An afflicted trio. The hardest words he's had to say. So far.

"And, I believe you are as well," the inevitable is released.

Frozen and speechless, Cuddy cannot even blink.

"It's why the virus attacked your bodies so aggressively. Her early menopause wasn't early menopause. She got pregnant three months ago. And you got the virus from her last week."

Shocked, perplexed, disoriented, a confounded smirk begins to shape Cuddy's lips.

"What?"

The question comes out winded as she's trying to hold back tears. House is blank. Waiting for her reaction or opinion before he lets his own form.

"That doesn't make sense."

"Actually," he says, her arm now prostrate, touching only his fingertips to hers.

"It does."

A beat. Cuddy sits up a little trying to rationalize, and House just watches as it all comes together.

"You mean...us?"

And then is sinks in. The room is suddenly cold and she buries herself deeper in the blanket. Sighing, mute, in indescribable awe.

A beat. An immeasurably long space of time. Effort to say something and then another pause.

House breaks it as objectively as possible,

"You should know, if you _are_ pregnant there are certain risks to the fetus because you got the virus so early in the pregnancy...the odds of miscarriage are higher. If you do go to full term though, odds of havinga healthy baby are in your favor."

He's trying to pretend like she's just an ordinary patient. He's stifling every emotion even ones outside this situation.

"You did a pregnancy test?"

House nods then,

"Waiting for the results."

"So I might not be pregnant?"

He nods once, rigidly almost as if to say 'no' by saying 'yes'.

"But there's really no other explanation for..." But he can't complete the thought.

House takes a step back in an attempt to disconnect. Cuddy breathes 'wow' inaudibly, still trying to rationalize, trying to make herself believe.

"Thank you."

"I saved your life. Of course, I'm also partly to blame for what was wrong with you in the first place. Let's just say we're even."

He turns to walk away.

"House, I'm sorry-"

"Don't," cutting her off. Not facing her now because he can't.

"Don't be."

He steps out of the room, being lead by his mind and not his heart, and then under his breath, and to himself,

"I'm not."

Long after midnight the narrow halls of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital appear deserted. Haunted by spirits of the past, by ghosts of forgotten memories,by disease and remedy, by life and death, it makes everybody within its walls a victim. Gregory House, the maverick diagnostician, the tenured department head, the infectious disease aficionado, is alone. With or without a team, with or without woman, with or without his best friend, House is always alone. This loneliness is a self fulfilled prophecy. It is a curse. It is above all else, a choice. But, in his casually morose stride, acceptance comes upon him. A liberating acceptance and with it responsibility and an appreciation of life (though not necessarily his own), the faint stirring of old ambitions and unrealized dreams. There will always be the Amber incident. But he loves his work.

"It's all a poor substitute at best," he tells himself .

A substitute for the white picket fence and three point five children. A substitute for a partner, some companion, for the ordinary mundane attributes of real life.Instead he has guilt, pain, addiction. An inability to ever articulate his emotions or maintain a relationship with another human being. And he can not tell why the struggle is worth while, why he has determined to use to the utmost himself and his competence as a scientist. His expertise in solving puzzles, in seeing connections that nobody else can, seems petty. He cannot even remind himself at this moment why he became a doctor. House is beginning to lose himself. With an overwhelming prospect on the horizon and an unthinkable blunder hanging over him, change is on his mind. He is afraid to change. Convinced he can't. Admitting defeat instead of actually trying, complacent. Because if he fails, he's got nothing. It's giving up something real so that he can hold onto hope, except he doesn't believe in hope either. There is only futility in hope, so he has nothing.

And here he stands, outside a sick friend's hospital room, with nothing.


	6. Epilogue, or A Reason to Stay

Aimlessly led by the soles of his shoes, House and his third soul are in turmoil. His mind convoluted with uncommon emotions, he cannot decide what he truly feels. What he actually wants the results to be. Passing rows of rooms, pacing endless hallways, and drifting through fluorescently green corridors, time passes. Soon it is the middle of the morning and he arrives at fate. Footsteps follow behind him but he is unaware as he stands, feet planted firmly outside of the laboratory.

A moment of reflection before he goes in. Then he picks up the paperwork quickly, as if the letters on it are not going to change his life forever. And back out. Counting his steps, or his breaths, counting in an attempt to reverse time,to rewind, he anxiously limps as far away from the lab as possible. When he is only a few paces from Cuddy's room and he can put it off no longer, House brings the sheet of paper to his eyes and sees the results.

She is asleep when he enters. He sits beside her now,closer thanhe allowed himself earlier. A faint snicker escapes him at the sight of her covered so thoroughly in calamine lotion. She seems like a little girl. Innocent, naive, virginal even. His eyes focus on her abdomen, watching it rise and fall, watching her breathe. Bringing her hand to his lips, there is a taste. Or smell (the two are so dependent upon eachother that he scarcely knows the difference). It is familiar,it is her perfume. A scent long associated with this woman. And as the skin rests against his lips so begins his _madeleine_ moment. A gust of memories. A flashback.

It is after the infarction, though not long after. A month, maybe more. He is still with Stacy. Atleast he thinks he is. She quit him the day she saved him but he'll never admit it. It is autumn, near Thanksgiving as he recalls, when he storms in the clinic. He is drunk. On alcohol, narcotics anything within reach. Barely able to walk House is making a scene, shouting incoherently about his leg and demanding to see the Dean of Medicine.

She comes out of her office and takes him into an exam room. He's disheveled, an understatement really. With circles under his eyes and sweat trickling down his temple, he is pain. But, he is not there for pills. It is in fact a follow up visit. Perhaps the only appointment he kept. She examines him, and he envies her bedside manner. A pile of remarks about her ass, he is being himself.

He's ashamed of his behavior, humiliated by his disability, but with her it's different. She's seen his leg, changed his dressings, seen him at his worst.

She understands.

And as she touches him now, examining his pupils, taking his blood pressure, prescribing painkillers, there is a private communion. An unspoken amity.She remembers him but not the same way he remembers her. She was there in Michigan, a face he knows from his memory. He has always wanted to know more.

They don't talk much, their rapport is only in its infancy now and what she does ask him is only clinical anyway. Except for,

"How did you get here?"

"Drove."

"Drunk and with your leg still recovering from surgery?"

She's concerned as much as appalled.

"They covered it in Driver's Ed, mommy. I'll be fine ."

"Well you're not _driving_ home. I'm calling you a cab."

And she does. House leaves the room a little less drunk, his heart defeated and Cuddy watches him leave, escorted out in a wheelchair, with a guilty conscience. But thirty minutes later she sees him sitting the clinic, scowling at a sick person hacking a lung up beside him. She asks the nurse who escorted him why hewas still here and finds out that he offended the cabbie, or rather the cabbie's wife,and was refused a ride. Cuddy sighs and shakes her head, looking at the clock.

It's nearly five anyway, she tells herself as she goes into her office and gets her keys and purse Approaching him,

"Come on."

"What?"

"I'll give you a ride home."

"I'm fine. Nearly sober," not even believing it himself.

Ignoring him, Cuddy moves behind the wheelchair and starts pushing it toward the door. But he stands, abruptly.

"I can walk."

Except he can't, as he exits the clinic, Cuddy directly behind him. Once outside he makes it a few steps on his own but staggers, nearly falling and Cuddy immediately rushes to brace him.

"You're going to need a cane, you know that right?"

"Canes are for old men, and peanuts with monocles."

They are a four legged silhouette in the shadow of the an autumn sunset.

On the way to Cuddy's car they take a shortcut over the lawn. House's left foot gets caught on something, and his right is useless, so he succumbs to gravity, falling. Hard, and taking Cuddy down with him.

Now laying in the cold, wet grass her body is alongside his as they realize what just happened. A minute passes. Yes, atleast sixty seconds. Cuddy sits up to see House close, just lying there. She doesn't know what he's thinking or if he's okay.

The fact that she falls with him rather than letting him tumble alone affects him, even now in his diminishing stupor. It permeates his armor and he sits up, fixing his gaze to hers. Propping himself on one arm, confounded by her loyalty, he considers nothing else. And then he kisses her. And she lets him. It's a clumsy kiss with a kind of bleak urgency. It's a quaint kiss, picturesque as the red glow of a fall dusk backlights them. It's a brief kiss, not too wet or intrusive.

It is their first kiss.

It breaks abruptly and Cuddy looks around to see if anybody noticed this public display of affection. She stands and puts her arms out to help him do the same, but he doesn't take them, getting up slowly on his own. He leans on her as they complete the journey to her car in silence.

Brevity is the ride home. They distract themselves with small talk but House can't be this ignorant. When he confronts her about the kiss she just passes it off as him being drunk and adds something about Stacy.

They cross the threshold of his apartment, his arm hanging around her, dangling as if from a pillory.Cuddy's body overlaps half of his as she's in front of him but still at his side, supporting him. The apartment is a disaster. A complete mess with clothes, books, prescription bottles, everything. Everywhere. House trips, on who knows what exactly, as they reach the couch. Cuddy is pinned between him and the piece of furniture. It's the closest they've ever been. And it's _right_. Tears in his eyes until he blinks them way, never allowed to forget his injury.Hunched, pressing against her, the situation is sobering and House is nearly there. He lifts off of her and sighs, dropping to and sitting, not on the couch, but the floor.

Cuddy's knees are at eye level. Soft, dimpled knees. He wants to kiss these knees but grasps her nearby wrist instead. House whispers something into her hand, the word forming like a kiss. And he pulls on her arm, as if he needs to tell her something, urging her down. She stoops, convincing herself he has something to say, and then sits beside him. Neither speak.They are looking at eachother, heads turned, naked faces, one seeing only the other. House leans, lessening the gap between them. So close that they recycle eachother's air until he can see clearly the sapphire freckles in her eyes. The slightest movement and their lips meet. He's kissing her. And she's letting him. Again. It's a remorseful kiss, gentle and deliberate. Slow. He pulls away and inhales, the taste of her in his mouth diluting the acerbity of alcohol. It happens again, a hand rising to her face, his thumb stroking her jaw. This is all of his pain mounting, a slow rise. It is an omen. Ashfall before an eruption. Tectonic plates are about to collide.

The anatomy of a volcano is a distant thought for them but a parallel scenario no less.

The kiss develops, it transforms. In his deepest desperation, House is grasping

for straws. Waiting for it to end. For her to slap him in the face. But the end

has no end and so he advances. Their lips part, but his never come off her body.

He moves towards her neck, kisses near an ear, enjoying the toasted cocoanut aroma of her hair. Trailing down, his tongue escaping on the descent of her neck.

Wanting her shoulder, his fingers reaching for her top bottom and undoing

three more. He slides his mouth along her shoulder,reveling in the contour of

the bone beneath him. Gnawing a little makes her moan so he does it again.

House pulls her closer to him now, so that she is leaning on him, her weight

hovering. Cuddy seems neither hesitant nor confident. She is lost. In the momentand in his arms. His body is perpendicular to the couch and until now they have

been resting against it, but with her in his lap, he goes to lie down, flat on the floor

and she lifts his shirt as they do.

They make out with the fury and exploration inexperienced teenagers.

The enthusiasm of virgins. Resolving the angst, dissolving all emotions kiss after

kiss, this embrace makes them forget about the pain and guilt, the complications, the consequences. It is the only thing that makes sense. It is the complete abandonment of logic.

On top of him now, Cuddy's mind grappling for reason, she tries to squirm away but he won't let her. House pulls her closer, holds her tighter, his arms forming a ring around her that is infinity. On the floor, in his apartment. In his _ and _Stacy's apartment. It feels illicit. It is raw passion, reverence from an irreverent bastard.

It is almost love.

They don't undress _per se_. His pants come down, not far,he's still too insecure about the scar. Her blouse remains but the bra has vanished, and her breasts escape it. She straddles him in her black skirt, his hands exploring underneath it as her mouth rampages his. She is aggressive and he loves it. She wants this, he realizes. They both realize. And in that moment pith. Th kind you can only experience when an unrequited love is validated. Conceived. Reciprocated.When you have her in your arms and she doesn't mind that you have no intention of ever letting go. He has a photograph, tactile. But to hold this woman close,to be able to cherish his infatuation, the tangibility of lovemaking, is a far greater possession

House is getting soft. And hard, at the same time.

She's devouring him, biting his lip, eyes scrolling down his chest, panting and rocking hypnotically against him. She lifts off to slide his briefs down and they kiss one last time before he penetrates her effortlessly. A physical fusion and their connection is born.

Strange, there has been almost complete silence through all this. Neither of them has uttered a word. It's as if they are in a vacuum, no sound really stands out. It is surreal, muteness and deafness. A missing sense.

But as she moves, riding him tantalizingly slow, to feel him, every inch, every particle inside her for the first time, their minds are screaming.

"Lisssse," his cries, able to only call her by her first name in fables such as this.

A quiet escalation to the inevitable. It is a sad torment they are putting themselves through in this consummation. An interesting word, he decides. Because they _are_ being consumed. By eachother and each passing day. By circumstances beyond their control. This is in their control, perhaps the only reason it is happening.

House, in ecstasy at the sight of her as she touches his face has an original thought. That there might be more than this. That perhaps there could be nothing better than making her his bride and slowly growing old together. And here is where he first considers he may be in love. And rejects it. He can't be. It's misplaced, an aftershock of his relationship with Stacy.The only _real_ relationship he's ever had. This isn't a relationship. It isn't a commitment. It is sex. A human need. A series of physiological responses.The next thought escapes him.

The slow, deliberate writhing of her hips is driving him mad. Every muscle in his body tenses.

'Lust, not love', he thinks comforting himself with semantics.

Then a thought, 'If heaven exists-'

But it doesn't, House knows. This is as close as to salvation either lost soul will ever be. And it is enough.

Except they're not lost. Not anymore. They've found eachother. This embrace, a tacit unity. It builds as Cuddy's face is a blush red. Sprinkles of condensation across her cleavage. House pulls down on her, needing to be deeper inside and without the two legs needed to thrust his hips. He pulls heedlessly with this need and it works. He is buried inside her. They are one and it is perfect.

It is a paradox, rough and tender as she kisses him then rises, her hair creating an opaque border around her face. They stay like this as dusk becomes night, and revel in the darkness, against eachother's flesh for as long as they can.

When the tension is too much, the oppressive heat unbearable, self preservation is put on the back burner. They share an idea in a simultaneous instant: the belief that they might live forever. And then they come. House first but only moments. It is not a crescendo. It is a complete release. An expulsion. The sum of all fears and doubts, crippling doubts. And awful anguish.

Catharsis.

House wants more. More of this, more of her. More from it all. And then for the first time, but not the last, it comes to him: you can't always get what you want.

Drained, he passes out almost immediately. His leg hurts but for a few minutes more, his heart does not. Cuddy rolls off and lies beside him for a while,their bodies in symmetrical harmony on the mahogany floor. Sound returns, she hears traffic, crickets, a neighbor. She knows she must go.

House feels her lift his arm up, having to pry her body out of its tight grip. He wants to scream, to admit that he loves her and carry her in his arms to the bed.

But he cannot even articulate the word 'stay'.

So Lisa Cuddy stands, uncertain where she goes from here, her feet struggling to put one in front of the other. This was not out of guilt and that scares her. She does not know why this happened and tears fill her eyes at this defiance of logic. She sees him one last time, sleeping and thinks he looks as if he already knows she will not be here when he wakes. No promises or expectations, a clean escape. A one night stand. Except he does not _know_ this. Perhaps he suspects it, fears it, letting it reside far back in his mind. But in his heart lies the possibility that this could be a brand new start, with her. That it'll be clear if he wakes up and she's still here. In the morning.

If. A dream afraid of waking, he lets it sleep. But in this dream, this suddenly omniscient dream, everything _is_ exactly how it seems so he finds the courage to open his eyes.

But it's too late.

He should have given her a reason to stay.

A week later she calls. Two weeks later he is the head of the department of diagnostic medicine at her hospital.

Accident,mistake, different names for the same thing. A varying degree of the same mess. Another strain of the same indiscretion.

It's no different he knows now, as the flashback fades. Current events bear an uncanny resemblance to the past. And all the sentiment and charity, all the emotions exchanged between them cannot change this. An autumn sunset and a spring storm are one in the same. He thinks, 'If I knew then what I know now-'

They have an unusual relationship. Friendship. And for him there is no logic in doing this now only because it had been done then. It's not worth jeopardizing or losing what they have. He's too weak, too empty, to keep this up.

"I should have given you a reason to stay," he whispers at her bedside, the test results in his lap.

He can't accept that it's over, still seeing a faint flicker cast by a ray of sunlight in an idealistic future. They can settle with eachother, for eachother. They can finally just settle. But his broken heart will never heal if he keeps tearing out the sutures, so he stifles these thoughts, chastising himself for being so naive, so stupid.

And Cuddy moves, turning her head, inquisitively looking upon his solemn expression. Her eyes begging for an answer.

"How do you feel?"

"Better," she breathes.

She's looking at the papers in his hands.

"Are those the test results?"

House nods, holding his breath. Not letting the stale air fill his lungs.

He hesitates, an answer in itself. And shakes his head, afraid his voice will reveal disappointment then,

"I was wrong," a disgusted admission.

"You're not pregnant."

Stoic, clinical. Merely a front.

Cuddy makes no effort to conceal her disappointment and it pains House to see her hurt by this. As much as it pained him when she was gasping for air. The sorrow of missed opportunity. Fact,not fiction for the first time in so many years.

A safe return to the way things were.

He's distant now, as if she is a black hole whose event horizon he cannot near. He wants to console her somehow. To apologize for getting her hopes up. His mouth opens, his lips move but no words come.

And in this awkward beat an unnatural reverse transformation takes place. The frog becomes a tadpole. The monarch a caterpillar. This couple who were on the verge of making sense in the cosmic scheme of things are willfully now just employer and employee.

Sweet sauce and partypants, they have called eachother. But no more. Their indiscretions will be ignored, their past forgotten, their present platonic.

What finally fell in place just falls apart.

It is a tragedy. A love story. A one legged relationship falling fatally from a balance beam.

Tragedy because what they have is more than physical. It is something chemical, beyond hormones or pheromones it goes down to the atom, the composition of the matter that makes them whole. They are comprised of the same elements,they are equals. And opposites. The polar attraction a natural driving force that they can not overcome.

Love because of everything unsaid.The mutual possessiveness between them. Their rapport. The details about eachother that nobody else notices. They are friends. They are lovers. They are lost again, waiting to be found.

'It started out with a kiss. How did it end up like this? '

"It was only a kiss," House convinces himself, still waxing nostalgic.

Knowing it was in fact, so much more.

There will be a day, an indeterminate amount of time in the future when, outside his office Lisa Cuddy will see her reflection in the glass as she passes. She'll see through the glass. She'll see him. And longing for this mirrored perspective,familiar and proximate they'll be lovers again, at last.

But neither of them wants to wait years for contingency or convenience. So they repress their mutual desire, and sway back into the sad, unspoken status of the situation.

As House stands with one foot in and one foot out of her room, a visual metaphor, a familiar voice comes from behind him.

"House."

He turns around and gives this face a single nod, like an altar boy who regrets extinguishing the wrong candle.

"Wilson."

Wilson goes in the room, flowers in hand. House moves on.

Involuntary as the broken heart beating inside an otherwise hollow cavity are the misguided footsteps marking a passage that ends at his office. A final destination for this new day. He stands in the middle of it, two hands on the cane that supports him, and considers. Many things have happened here. Diagnoses, epiphanies, cures. But there is no cure for what he is feeling now.

It is a malady he has been trying to treat for years. An affliction he knows he has an anecdote for but can not bring himself to concoct. His heart and brain are in a tug of war, hopelessly torn between reason and emotion, what feels right and what is right.

Cuddy put him here. She gave him everything he wanted in spite of all she knew it would cost her. His biggest failure has been to not have done the same for her. With this thought House finally knows how he feels about the test results; nearly as disappointed as her. A doctor too objective to give his heart full autonomy, he will never know what he is missing. Only that he is missing it.

House suppresses a flutter in his stomach at the exhilaration of knowing he could have her. '_She could be mine_'. But he doesn't deserve her, he knows. Denying himself happiness has become a habit, a way of avoiding complacency by substituting it with misery.

He is imperfect, it could never last. Except it has it has lasted. As soon as they acknowledge it though, as soon as they _try,_ they would ruin it. The gossamer illusion would shatter and be as flawed and damaged as the man himself. He would lose her. And he's not willing to take this risk. It's more to have her at arm's length than completely out of sight. By sustaining his own misery he is sparing hers.

Glad his friend has returned, House is beginning to accept responsibility for the pain he inadvertently caused Wilson. A dim reality settles on him. That this is it. Pain, incompleteness, shortcomings. Having even the slightest role in the loss of a life seems more significant now than all of the lives he's saved.

Amber was an echo of House. She was him in a softer form. His competition only because they were such matched rivals. Part of House died with Amber. He can't tell what's left of himself. An integral piece is missing. It is hard to explain.

Finally accepting what he has done, House knows he will never forgive himself, he can only hope to forget, to block the memory, erase the details.

Aware of this lack identity, House lets his eyes scan the room, in search of what defines him, some object that contains the rest of him. He sees the photograph, the tennis ball, the white board. All of it seems absurd now. Searching still, the flicker of a light from the hallway catches his peripheral view, and then he finds it. The glass door beckoning his stare, reminding him always, mockingly reads Gregory House, MD.


End file.
